and dressed with scrupulous heed to detail, studiously effacing every sign of his sleepless night.
That experience was in no way to be surmised from his appearance when he sallied forth to breakfast at the Plaza.
At eight precisely, presenting himself at the Stanistreet residence, he desired the footman to announce him as the author of a certain telegram from Edgartown.
He was obliged to wait less than a minute, the footman returning in haste to request him to step into the library.
This apartment—which he found much as he had last seen it, eight hours ago, its window shattered, the portières down, the furniture in some disorder—was, on his introduction, occupied by two persons, one an elderly, iron-gray gentleman of untidy dress and unobtrusive habit in spite of a discerning cool, gray eye, the other Mr. Blensop in the neatest of one-button morning-coat effects, with striped trouserings neither too smart nor too sober for that state of life unto which it had pleased God to call him, and fair white spats.
If his attire was radiant, so was the temper of the secretary sunny. He tripped forward in sprightliest fashion, offering cordial hands to the caller till he recognized him, and even then was discountenanced only for the briefest moment.
"My dear Mr. Ember!" he purred soothingly—"why didn't you tell me last night it was you who had sent that telegram? If I had for a moment suspected the truth you should have had your appointment with Colonel Stanistreet at any hour you might have cared to name, no matter how ungodly!"
